


The Promised Land

by Daastan_Go



Category: Naruto
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Drama, Erotica, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Family, Gen, Lust, Military, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Morbid, Mysticism, Nationalism, Other, Philosophy, Politics, Promiscuity, Revenge, Romance, Sex, Tragedy, Uchiha Itachi-centric, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 02:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go
Summary: Itachi's hurled down a different path in the wake of Sasuke's death that makes him question everything he once held dear. A battle for a new-world's on the horizon, and everyone's forced to choose sides. Which side would Itachi take to create 'The Promised Land? A new Rinnegan holds the promise of his salvation.





	The Promised Land

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Kishimoto's legal property. I’m not making any money from this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plotlines, and Original Themes are my own.
> 
> Yaoi/Incest Fans: Don't expect any Yaoi/Incest concepts in my fictions. Look elsewhere if they give you elusive moments of gratification.
> 
> Warning: Realistic military protocols, conflicting philosophies, non-sexual male bonding; violent character deaths, morbid content, promiscuity, and ideas this fandom isn't used to. Those who are averse to such things can stop reading now and find the work that suits their highly interesting tastes.

# # # # # #

A crack in the cup always left it half-full. All one could do was mend the cup and fill it to the brim again. It was a haphazard work of art, a daub of smelly glue smeared over the hole to seal it up. It hardly ever worked. He had to sit down before the stream, hold it under the thin cascade that issued forth from between the greasy, moss-covered stones in the forest, simply to watch streamlets of water come out again. It was hopeless.

Life, too, was like a cup, and once it was cracked, it was nothing more than an endless task of mending and repairing the damage over and over again. The spill was a sure affair. He had taught himself the irksome art of patience over the years. His life in Akatsuki had made it a habit. The smelly and broken cup never bothered him. It was cracked and it smelt of that thick paste he had made from yellowish plants that grew in Mist Village's marshes. There was nothing more to be done.

But, sometimes, the crack would grow in size and the fracture in the cheap material would travel zig-zag in all directions. That cup always broke apart. He remembered how he had poured out hot tea once, only for the cup's bottom to fall out. He had to give his robes to a shifty washer-man in a small village.

Through fear and a bit of money, he kept his silence. When he got his robes back, he noticed that the colours had faded in the clouds and black did not look so black anymore, though he was a little surprised when Sasori made a new replacement puppet for a faulty one (another grand-little addition to his absurdly small army of mannequins) only a few days later. Such things were of little concern when he was protecting his village's iron-will. He knew he just had to buy another set of robes and a new cup.

If only life could be bought like his robes and the cups. If only it was that simple. Alas, it was just a hopeful dream of Men who grew despondent as years wore them down. Dreams faded into blurs, and the only thing left behind in their wake were bits of  _what if’s_  and pieces of  _could have’s._

Itachi was not too shy to admit the secret follies in his mind and in the darkness of his ill-heart. Maneuvering with fools was a daily matter, but his mind was a vast canvas of truth and lies. He knew which ones he had to pick up from the dirt and grit there, to be moulded by his tongue artfully to craft another lie. Day in, day out that's all he had done: lies, lies, and more lies. He had lied so much that it created an illusion of Truth for his mind.

Sometimes, he wondered about the terrible nature of lies, but he always came back to the same answer: they were necessary. They kept him safe, his village safe; and most of all, they kept his beloved brother safe. Sasuke was still so young. His soul was fueled by a strong hatred he had planted in his heart all those years back. It did not make Itachi happy.

He had broken Sasuke, his spirit, his life. When Itachi defected, it assured his heart that he was on the path to redeem himself of his own sins. He had killed so many that night: men, women, children . . . no one survived the edge of his sword and the callous grip of his firm hand. It was soaked in so much blood and sweat that night.

That night had changed everything. Old walls were bathed in the blood of his victims. Children whimpered under the bundles of clothes in the cupboards and under the beds; so consumed by fear they were that they had forgotten the nature of Sharingan. It was an all-seeing eye, after all.

The little ones were so clumsy in the last fleeting moments of their childhood. The daemon's eye did not let them hide and it did not let them run away. He dragged them out and put them down like cattle. Their corpses lay still in the shadows in a neat pile, whilst the flames guttered in the lanterns—a macabre painting of a madman and he was its sole architect.

When the shadows had moved over their faces, it covered their wide eyes filled with so much fear. Everything had gone black in his mind after the first kill. A stink had risen up, and it intensified and lingered around him. Lightning had flashed several times in the sky and the thunder was so loud, but it did not rain that night. It was as though fates did not want to hide his sins. He was marked with their blood and the filth of a terrible curse.

Itachi had accepted his crimes and the inevitable punishment: Sasuke would be the one to avenge his fallen brethren. It was decided by fates, and he was but an automaton in their clever designs. They knew that it was so difficult to let go of someone you had loved so much for so long; and to be put down by the same hand that had been so innocent that night, before the moments of truth? It was so poetic in such a cruel way—a befitting end of his terrible journey.

He had embraced this idea the moment his new eyes, with an artful plan, pierced into Sasuke's as he stood behind the corpses of the loving parents he had felled so wantonly. His Genjutsu was cruel. It was inhuman. It broke the child's mind apart into fragments and constructed it back again with a glue of malice.

It was necessary to be unkind to him; he did not have to know. Sasuke's cup was made anew and it was so different from before. Life was not a cup that could be bought again after the fractures and the cracks were made. It was a thing to be mended with halfhearted attempts and hasty actions. The smelly glue was always there as a reminder of the past. It never went away and one had to live with the undesirable outcomes and dreams of what life could have been like if a right was taken in lieu of the left.

Dreaming, forever dreaming and writhing in the cobweb of lies and dreams and memories; waiting, forever waiting for fates to deliver him from the mechanisms of life that had thrown such sad prospects to choose from; it was an endless cycle of hope, regret, and dreams. He had made peace with his life . . . a long time ago.

He did not dream like all Men did. No, he dreamt of eternity, a chance of a meeting beyond this life. He would wait upon the precipice and tell his stories to his father, his mother . . . and Sasuke. He carried them in his breast and they weighed him down like a beast of burden. Life was like that; it was a room filled with mundane things and toys, and a child's life changed forever when he picked one up and made it his. Then life became a show of playing with things and discarding things and coveting things.

Yes, life was just like that. It was chaotic, restless, and a stuff of madness. Peace was a thing to be pursued. It was mirage. The chase was endless. The wait was endless. The traveler knew that, perhaps, but the idea of a false-hope drove him to seek it out, always. Hope was a precarious foothold. He had never placed much value upon it. He believed in the nature of necessary decisions. They had paved his life and he had little regrets beyond what he had done to Sasuke.

Itachi was unimaginably remorseful of his intentional contributions to Sasuke's life: Sasuke was filled with nothing but anger, but Itachi had hoped like fools that his death would bring Sasuke the peace he sought in his small life. It just was not meant to be . . . the one dream he had dreamt was gone, and he could not just make it anew. The dream was empty without its actors. It was like a theatre without the props and actors—just a snobbish audience filled its halls, faces hidden behind the fans. It was unreal.

The sky was dark tonight as he made his way to the Valley of the End. Tall statues stood facing each other beyond the naked trees. The waterfall between them was eerie and quiet. It was autumn and the streams up north were thin. He could not see _their_ mighty faces. They were covered in darkness, and he could barely see how high they went. Hashirama and Madara: a destiny was forged between them in the past. It had sealed the fate of his clan then. Perhaps his own as well.

Itachi let out a weary sigh, his eyes leaving the hard countenance of his ancestor to look ahead at the small path made out of grit and dirt. It led to a small shrine from where the water flowed. Wind grew a little rough, and he had little strength in him to fight it. He took heavy steps to the three guard-statues with their spears raised. They looked at him, unblinking, in the sparse light that came down from the moon.

He climbed silently. The stairs were steep and well-worn by rains and feet that had walked upon them. It grew foggy and cold as he drew near the shrine. He stopped at the tori that stood askew under the bleak sky. The shrine looked so old and the spires and statues were covered with mold and fungus that they gave it a look of being so ancient. He knew it was made when Konoha was created, but they had neglected it so much.

The shrine smelt of fungus, sandalwood, and neglect. They had completed the rites only a few hours ago. His heart was made of stone, but it had cast off that hard visage to beat with a wild rhythm he had not known since he had murdered his parents. No, it was worse—so much worse; and as he drew near the grave, fear, anger, and sadness clamped down on his throat and he could barely breathe.

A soft rain fell down upon the stone-grave and he stopped. It was unmarked. A Gorinto was erected behind the grave, but he could see no burial rites urns, and the lantern by the grave it was not lit. The slab behind it had a single spiral marking in the corner. Naruto had probably left his final farewells here.

The place suddenly whispered a chorus of sounds into his ears. He looked up and then he sat down beside the grave. A rook perched upon the branch above the Buddha statue cawed in surprise when he shattered the lid with a single blow of his fist. The stone crumbled down and a strange smell invaded his nostrils. There was a rank odor of blood beneath the beautiful smell of sandalwood and lilies.

Itachi breathed in deeply and reached into the grave. In the darkness of the grave, his hands touched the body wrapped in a white cloth, and he pulled it out. With hesitant hands, he cradled the torso on his lap and unwrapped the cloth wound around the face. The cloth fell away and raindrops fell down into the red eyes that stared back at him. He brushed the clean hair away from that deathly white forehead and the head fell back lifelessly. It was  _still_  flexible, the body of his brother . . .

They had bathed him after the execution. He was clean and the odour he had smelt came from the katana they buried with him. Itachi unwrapped more of that cloth and saw the face frozen in such an unplaceable expression. He could not really tell what Sasuke wanted to say: was he angry and sad; shocked and afraid? Itachi could see it all in his eyes and his face, but it was so subtle; it was as though he had accepted his fate after the knowledge of truth about him. It was not fair. He did not deserve to meet such a cruel end. A promise was broken and Itachi had little to give and gain in life now. So little . . .

His eyes fell down to his neck and saw ugly stitches in the cold white skin. They had sewn up the deep cut there. Colour had bled out from his body hours ago. He was such an innocent little husk of the brother Itachi so loved and knew. A faint colour lit into a vivid flame from the sparks of red in his eyes. They were not his. He had stolen them from Obito's hideout—another necessity. But he felt them changing, taking on a new pattern that changed his life all over again; and when his new, fiery eyes looked down at the drops of red as they fell down upon the frozen face, he felt nothing but the most cruel kind of anger and a sharp knife of vengeance that bifurcated his heart.

Rain fell upon Itachi's back and his bones shuddered with cold, but he kept looking into Sasuke’s eyes. For the first time in his strange life, he felt the taste of denial. It was a slow realization and it spread through his veins like icy waters filled the lungs of a drowning man. His pulse and respiration slowed down, Time stopped around him, and all that was left in the world were the dark pits of Sasuke's eyes.

"Sasuke . . . " he whispered like the word was new for his mouth and tongue and touched that cold cheek with the tip of his fingers. There was no warmth there. And as if out of habit, he touched the side of his neck and felt nothing there, too. The pulse was gone. The chakra veins were filled with a cold chakra that still lingered there, waiting to fade out as days went by. His Sharingan saw it all, and he cursed it for its honesty as it shattered the small hope he had in him to turn this around.

Itachi was  _such_  a fool now—an ordinary man that clung to hope and lies. In that single moment, he had completely changed. Hope became his anchor, dreams became his refuge, and memories became his poison. He searched for  _what if’s_ in his mind, and they gave him so many possibilities and new dreams to dream, new hopes to weave, new thoughts to cherish.

He wiped away the telltale tears and looked up at the withered face of the Buddha as he stared at him with a somber look of a lifeless man turned to stone, and he could not help but feel the same. He stared down again and the face of his dead brother greeted him. He could not bear to look any longer; so he clawed at his cloak and took out a small bottle, and with cruel hands, he plucked the eyes out of that face that had been whole before.

Two gaping holes were left where his eyes were and blood bubbled out and congealed there. Itachi passed his hand down softly over the cold-bitten face and closed his eyes forever. He did not need the cloth any longer. He stood up, shoved the bottle into his pocket that held a bit of water and two fresh bobbing eyes, and moulded enough chakra in his right eye: a black flame came to life upon his brother's corpse, and within seconds, he was reduced to a muddy pile of ash.

Cold rain crashed into him and the statues and the spires and the ash disappeared like mud around him. He turned around and left the shrine silently. It was done . . .

# # # # # #

A mass of fire issued from his mouth. It was a massive ball of flames that clawed wildly at the slick, clammy walls of the cave and raced out. They went faster than the man behind him could blink. A scream tore from the man's throat, who stood in front, and he went down fast. He twisted back and forth on the muddy ground. The wetness there did not save him. He went still only after a few seconds. He was dead, nothing more than a lump of coal on the ground.

The flame had carved out a long path of steam in its wake, but the rain was stubborn. It came back pouring down, powering through the heat till it had consumed it with a satisfying sizzle. Blue colour was drained from the sky. It was so grey and bleak now. He stepped to the corpse and looked down. Even his Sharingan could not see his features anymore. His flames were cruel and the burnt man on the ground was nothing more than a blur of his formal self, a thing in the memories.

He put his hand on the stones and stared at the rain. It was cool—the first rain of autumn. Most flowers and leaves were gone. Nothing was left behind to adorn the trees but a few leaves of yellow and gold that clung to them in a natural state of desperation. They, too, would have to say their farewells when the colder rains would come.

He breathed a controlled sigh, whiffing the lingering smell of the burnt flesh and the scent of dead leaves and a peculiar one of purple lilies that grew somewhere beyond the cluster of trees. Sasuke used to love them . . . and then he felt a puff of cold wind caress his face and neck and blow at his cloak. It billowed and twisted behind him; and he breathed in the scent again, taking in a long and relaxed breath.

He made to walk when the voice behind him spoke, "the rain’s not friendly today. You’ll catch a cold, Itachi-San."

Itachi looked behind into the shadows and watched the frightening grin of his companion widen. Even without his Sharingan, his pearly-white teeth and their sharp, unforgiving edges were easy to see. He was tall, so tall that his unkempt hair touched the twisted roots of the small trees overhead. His skin was blue but smooth like a shark's. The darkness hid the colour well. He stood over the corpse of their victim. He was a man from Mist, an informant. He did not play his cards right, and his misfortune cost him his life. Itachi could not say he was very sentimental about it.

"I enjoy the rain," Itachi said and stepped out of the cave. It was cold, like he had said. The chill felt as though it was going into his bones. Rain soaked through his cloak and biting cold seeped into his skin and a faint pink colour rose to his cheeks.

He breathed in a deep breath. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and felt the rain lash his face. He was afflicted with an immedicable disease of loss, and his mind was a limbo where he remained still, stagnant like the waters of the shore that could have carried him beyond to a place of salvation.

Perhaps these thoughts were the emanations of his failures, fragments of his poor designs. Man was a blundering puppet, and when one string broke, he changed into such a useless toy no one wanted to play with. Kami sure were cruel. His thoughts stopped when the rain mellowed to a soft drizzle. A pearly garment of fog rose up in soft waves about him, and the rain made holes in it persistently to halt its climb. He wanted it to be a revelation, but he had grown past these notions. In a day, he had become a different man.

"I didn't know a man as cold and cruel as you even cared," Kisame said from behind him and his big feet sloshed through the rain-water on the soggy ground. He stopped suddenly and went silent, and Itachi knew he wanted to say more.

"Did you say your farewells, Itachi-San? He seemed like such a sweet boy. Angry and misguided, but sweet," he spoke in a manner as if he was curious and amused. Itachi did not turn to look back at him. "You should’ve taken something from him—a little reminder. I would’ve just cut a little tuft of black hair. They hold the scent nicely. You know, kept it in a jar. But you took out his eyes—even better. Now you can stare at them or put them to good use. Who says family isn't everything? Liars!" And then he let out a rough laugh that rang around him loudly. Itachi never enjoyed Kisame’s sense of humour.

"Pain has called for a meeting," he said and looked up to see lightning flicker to the east. It left a shiny string, like a floating cobweb, in his eyes.

"Boss likes to grill. We couldn't even get anything out of the bastard," he said and looked at the corpse lying in the cave, withering away bit by bit as the wind rushed across him.

"The rain has thinned. The path should be safe now," Itachi said softly and started walking towards the bare trees in front of him. There was a bumpy road beyond them, and his Sharingan could see that the water had slid down the cliffs by now.

The trip back home was quiet and tiring. The cart wobbled and lurched dangerously on the precarious road and the old horse was unusually noisy. Kisame kept looking at him like a man with a very curious disposition; his glassy eyes sparkled with a child's mischievousness, and the wide smile was plastered on his face like barnacles on a sunken ship. Kisame had nothing to ask and Itachi had no philosophies about fish and men to unravel. Such tedious games and boring platitudes made him feel weary. A trick of the tongue was only good once. Its reuse made a fool out of tricksters, and over the years, he had found that this routine had run him down savagely.

It was odd that he even thought of the scattered hideouts his homes now, but he had forsaken everything for Konoha over a promise, and Konoha had forsaken him. It was his only response and he had embraced these wild, wayward men all villages had cast out over petty differences, quite halfheartedly. Life was poetic and amusing.

A large network of caves was their hideout this time. They had to walk through an old forest and run down neck-breaking steep-cliffs to find the mouth. Nagato was not generous enough to let it stay open. No, he had closed it meticulously with a large boulder he would only be able to smash through with a Susanoo. There were moss and fungus growing on its sides, a courtesy of Sasori's chemistry’s and botany's dangerous combinations. He was a keen master of things most bizarre. He had grown them in jars over the weeks. Few of them were poisonous. One touch and it was enough for a single trip to Yomi.

"A natural artistic look," Sasoei had spoken in a very dull tone through the artificial mouth of his puppet. He was an artifice of his own making.

When Itachi and Kisame made it to the boulder, the larger man clenched his thick fingers into a stone-smashing fist and knocked it against the boulder six times. Six was Nagato's favourite number. Buddha's teachings may have had more realms to entice mankind with, but he chose to wallow around in the last one. He never understood why the Rinnegan chose to reflect only the Realm of Desire, but he was too curious and fascinated to rest easy now.

Itachi's eyes changed and Sharingan's penetrating sight tore through the thick stone. He saw an animated corpse approach the stone from the other side. Powerful chakra pulsed through its body through the rods that had been jabbed into its torso. To an untrained human eye, he looked just like any other man. He poured out sweat, breathed, and sighed and walked and talked as Men did. He felt pain and pleasure, too.

Sometimes, he saw him and he could not help but think: were all Men not like him, corpses with an excited and wild breath of life in their ponderous bodies? It was a worrisome thought. The man made Itachi think too hard—his Kami-complexes made him think even harder.

The stone shuddered and rose up. He stood behind a slanting curtain of shadows, the corpse they called Pain. Light only gave colour to his feet and half his robes. He did not beckon them in. They exchanged silent glances and stepped inside the cave. Pain moved his hand down and the stone dropped with a resounding thud.

"No greetings for all the hard work? You’re as cold as a corpse," Kisame said with a hint of amused pleasure in his voice that sounded so loud in the large natural hall.

"I  _am_  a corpse," Pain said in the same dull tone, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and started walking to the meeting room.

"You should’ve shoved a chakra-rod in that heart as well. I think it's deader than my cousin's fish," Kisame said behind him, wearing a cunning grin and started walking in his wake.

The light in the hall was sparse. Few lanterns sat in the misshapen holes and dim light poured down over the ground. Thick spikes jutted out of the walls and the high ceiling. They carried their own sinister shadows. A few cobwebs clung to their bases and spiders bounced atop the delicate threads. The wind had disturbed them.

The taller man created a large shadow behind him. It moved sharply to the right as the light from the meeting room conquered its territory. It trailed behind him for a moment before it vanished. Itachi breathed in the stale air in the hall that was redolent of Sasori and Deidara's artistic experiments. He cast the Akatsuki symbol etched into the wall an appraising look, and then he made his way to the meeting room.

It was not so much a meeting room as another cave in a network of caves. It was decorated with such care by its denizens. Ghastly puppets hung from one side of the wall, and Deidara's clay was put away in bags stacked on top of one another in the other corner. It showed a clash between their artistic sensibilities. Hidan had a few black rods shoved into the hearts of a puppet or two. It could have been a man or a woman in its previous life. Itachi could not really say for sure.

Kakuzu was a private one: he stashed his money in his pockets and the bigger sum was locked away in a safe somewhere in his room. He was very protective of it, so much so that he had brutally murdered all of his shifty assistants ever since his bloody entry into this motley bunch. He was not to be trifled with.

Presently, the room was quiet. Deidara was slumped over the table and was busy creating an artistic marvel out of a little piece of clay he had moulded with his grotesquely shaped hands: a thing with a lopsided beak, an odd abdomen, and beady-eyes that could be called a sparrow. It bounced on the palm of his hand. The tongue there gave it a generous lick, and then it soared up and started flying around the room. His blue eyes went wide with enthusiasm as though he had not seen the results of this drab trick before.

Sasori's eyes followed the bird's wings, and he had nothing but a puppet's unnatural contempt to exhibit on his doll-like face. Kakuzu was counting a fat wad of cash and Hidan was whispering prayers and rolling the prayer beads between his fingers. Obito was missing. All for the better. He sat down next to Kisame who was still wearing a bold smile on his unnaturally unsightly features. He was still curious about the eyes, but Itachi did not feel like indulging his curiosity today.

Konan suddenly stepped into the room with a sober look on her face. The metal piercing under her plump lower lip shone in the lights of the lanterns. She stood behind Pain in an obedient posture and clasped her delicate hands before her. There was still a paper-flower-ornament in her hair. It was an old habit, something she wore to honour Yahiko's memory, even though he walked around her as a corpse daily. It was odd.

"Mist has been getting restless," Nagato spoke through Pain in Yahiko's voice. Konan's expression did not change. She stood with an air of utmost calm about her. He did not think he would have been able to bear the sight of Sasuke's corpse being flaunted before him, desecrated by Sage's animation tricks.

"Should I get Isobu and break their backs?" Deidara spoke from the end of the table. He looked perkier than usual. "You wouldn't mind, would you, Kisame? Your little fish-buddies will become food for my birds' beaks." He looked at him and created a silly smile on his face. He was young and a little foolish.

"Is that really a beak?" Kisame asked, sounding almost serious, and stared up as the bird made an umpteenth turn above his head. "I thought you just fashioned it after your tiny cock?" He dragged his eyes down and there was that cunning and mischievous glint in his eyes. He was goading Deidara on for another one of his . . . episodes, and so far, he seemed successful.

A vein popped out in Deidara's temple, and he looked on the verge of speech before Hidan forestalled him, "it's prayer day for Jashin-Sama—don't spoil it, Kisame!" He shot Kisame a terrible glare, rolled another bead almost grudgingly, and then locked his teeth with all his might to prevent a rude profanity from coming out. He really worked himself hard to stay quiet on Wednesdays. He was a devout man.

"Deidara's art’s as dull as his genitals. It makes everyone weep," Sasori droned, wearing Kisame's shadow on his eternally adolescent face.

Hidan threw the prayer beads down upon the table and jumped up to his feet. He looked ready to let loose a long string of profanities. "Sit down, Hidan," Pain commanded and Hidan mumbled something nasty and slowly sat back down. "What can you do, Deidara?"

"It would be easy to capture," Deidara said with utmost confidence on his young face, his shiny teeth bared and a smile that only seemed to widen. "Just tell me when you want it done."

Pain turned his gaze to look upon Kakuzu. He was still busy counting his money. "Why don't you lend him a hand? They’re offering good money at the temple for another job," he said and Kakuzu's eyes slightly brightened with newfound greed. He shoved the cash into his pocket and invested all of the attention he had to spare on the corpse sitting in the largest chair in the room.

"His art and mouth are both loud," he spoke and put his hands on the wide armrests. "I would like to take the holy-man with me. We can take care of the temple business and he can get the Bijū. Everyone gets what they want and no one is hurt."

Pain pulled in a deep breath like a man would, and then his eyes wandered in Itachi's direction. His Sharingan was sleeping in his eyes. "You’re awfully quiet," he spoke and laced his fingers together on the table.

"If Deidara can capture Isobu, then I don't see the logic in meddling with a simple plan. If you disagree, then share your grievances," he said and stared back at the purple eyes of the make-believe Sage without his halo and staff.

"I have no grievances. But you have a tongue. Use it," he said and stood up, flicking him a curious glance he did not think a corpse could have even managed. Then he left the room without saying anything more, with Konan trailing behind him as obediently as before.

One by one, all of them left. The room became so quiet again. Outside, the land was buzzing with the sounds of rain and songs of birds and flora. The smell of it had snuck in from somewhere. He stood up and started walking to the inner sanctum. The air there was still and heavy.

Silently, Itachi climbed down the stairs. This had been a temple so long ago. His steps produced the same dull thumping sound like always. It was like this place recognized his calculated footfalls upon the stairs. A thick mist rose from the sacred pond in front of the demon-statue. He stopped and looked up at it in silence, staring deep at its closed lids like he actually hoped for it to open them and stare back at his eyes, his soul.

It was hopeless. The thing was sleeping. It had been for so long. Bits and pieces of its soul had been ripped out of its form and made anew. The mist befogged its warped countenance, frozen in a heart-stopping scream. It titanic arms were contorted and hands clawed as though it wanted a swift liberation from this eternal ordeal.

But the tree beneath it was growing. It had sprouted so many branches. He stared and red overtook the black in his eyes, and a curious expression came to his face. His feet were placed firmly upon water, and beneath that flimsy surface was another universe. So many fish moved about the branches, clinging to this thing's life-force as if it was their only food-source. The branches quivered and trembled and delicate little buds grew out to spread in all directions.

Ever since Nagato had fed it a bit of chakra, it had grown so big. How big would it grow? A world within a world. Where would it end? He was fascinated by it all. He heard sounds of steps climbing down the stairs, but he did not turn to recognize the treacherous man they carried.

"Back from the graveyard? You look like a dead man yourself," the man spoke, and his voice was raspy and heavy behind the mask.

"I’ve said my farewells," he said and turned around to gaze upon the face hidden behind the mask. "Is that what you came to know, Obito?"

Obito's eye shrank in the mask. For a moment, he thought something along the lines of curiosity and fear mingle and flicker exquisitely there; but it vanished so quickly. The shadow over his face was heavy. It was even heavier behind him, standing there like a sentinel to guard his back.

"Did you really take the boy's eyes? So cruel, Itachi," he said and the sinister amusement in his voice magnified in the large space. "He died believing in things you were never truly capable of. What a pity."

Itachi took in a deep breath, his eyes bent upon the only thing he could see on Obito's face: Sharingan. "What did you hope to accomplish from all this? I wonder. But time will tell. It always does," he said in a mellow tone of voice, his face suggesting little to betray him. And then he started walking without giving a single glance to the dead tree that grew with such haste in the water . . .

# # # # # #

**Author's Note:**

> The six paths (bar the outer-path) shown in Naruto belong to the 'Realm of Desire' in Buddhist philosophy.
> 
>  


End file.
